The letters are uniform with no natural variation. Someone taught them to write this way, probably to avoid identification.
“What are you looking at?”
Sasha’s voice makes me realize that I’ve been staring at this note for ten minutes. When I look up, she’s watching me from the bed where she’s been pretending to read something on her phone.
“The handwriting,” I explain. “It’s almost like it was done with a typewriter using script font. Whoever wrote this has been trained to avoid handwriting analysis.”
“You can tell that just by looking?”
“Pressure marks show intent. Consistent depth means the writer was focused, not rushed. The letter spacing is identical throughout, which suggests—” I stop myself. “Sorry. Old habit.”
She looks up and squints at me. “What kind of habit?”
I set down the note and turn to face her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing an oversized sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder. The exposed skin is distracting, but not as distracting as the look in her eyes.
She’s not just curious; she’s suspicious.
“I told you I was military,” I remind her.
“You told me you were special operations. Then a journalist.” She tilts her head. “Journalists don’t analyze handwriting like forensic experts.”
“Some do.”
“Tony.”
“What do you want me to say, Sasha?”
“The truth would be nice.” She stands and walks toward me. “Where did you learn to read evidence like that? Why doesn’t anything ever seem to surprise you? How can you read people so well?”
Each question lands like a dart finding its target. I’ve been waiting for this conversation since the gallery attack. Part of me is surprised it took this long.
“I’ve seen a lot. Done a lot. The CIA trains you to notice things most people miss, and my uncle filled in the rest.”
Her eyes search my face for cracks in the story. I’ve been interrogated by professionals who couldn’t read me this well. Sasha sees through my defenses like they’re made of glass.
“You’re hiding something,” she declares so quietly that I almost miss it.
“Everyone hides something.”
“I’m not stupid, Tony. I know you’re not just a journalist. I’ve known as much since the beginning.”
“Then why haven’t you told Dmitri?”
Unless shehastold him, and me working for him now is just a ploy.
“I want to understand you first,” she responds before I can think too hard about that possibility. “Before I decide what to do about you.”
We stand there for a long moment, neither of us moving. I could kiss her right now. Pull her against me and make her forget about questions and suspicions and threatening notes. But that would be a manipulation, and I’m tired of manipulating her.
“We should get some sleep,” I say instead. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
She doesn’t argue, but the look she gives me says this conversation isn’t over.
The next morning,we order breakfast to the room. Sasha sits across from me at the small table, picking at her eggs while I work through my third cup of coffee. The silence is loaded.
“So,” she begins casually, “what was your longest assignment? When you were in the CIA, I mean.”
“Fourteen months.”
